Wools of Alienation

The thunder was echoing along the fragile windows and cloth was weaving languidly along the sewing machine. The wrinkles on her hand were stirring up as she pressed her slender fingers across the creamy yet fragile cloth. The rings on her hand emanated soothing melancholy which had survived in embarks of centuries.
The morns were growing and his gasping continued like rambling waters. Stomach was bloating and shrinking …absorbing tiny whimpers of the wind. The wrinkles on her hands were stirring up and shadows were creeping slowly onto yellow walls. The crease on the shadows was melting as sewing machine embraced tiny patches of the cloth.
Outside at the edge of thick woods was she walking hurriedly along muddy pathways. Her backpack was loaded with old books by Camus and Kafka. The hood was slightly encamped onto her shoulders and her partially exposed golden hair were bathing in the rain. The puddles were running like small tributaries. Flashes of thunder were resurrecting her pathway.
“Do you know where Mr. Thomas lives” she inquired in exhausted tone from a passing man.
He was a tall thin man dressed in black raincoat that was leaking pours of rain. She could barely see his face which was covered with his thick hat.
He leaned down and said “what a young lady like you are doing here in this weather”
She replied “Well I owe Mr. Thomas a favor and it is quite important I meet him now. He doesn’t have much time”
The man replied “well Mr. Thomas doesn’t like to meet anyone at this time and in any case no one has seen him since months”
She grew anxious and replied “Please take me there, it is quite urgent. I have travelled long miles just to meet him”
The man said “well so you wish. I am going that way and maybe you might want to follow me. The house is few blocks away at the end of next street”
The street was submerged in gloom and darkness. Rain was carrying their footsteps along. Noises of few barks were heard at a distance. Lights of few houses were flickering and shadows of some figures were rambling along silently.
“What favor do you owe Mr. Thomas” asked the man in curiosity
“Well that I can only tell Mr. Thomas, however it is myth of Sisyphus, a tale of hopelessness and despair that connect us. It is truth of that tale, gloom of self alienation that has brought me here” she replied
“Despair and hopelessness exhaust minds. They shadow our existence, submerge us in blankets of disguise. We carry smiling faces on streets, yet many volcanoes erupt and burst inside us” the man said with air of self reflection
“The strings of our soul are so fragile. Our heart beats are like wool that flutters onto stormy seas and wish for a needle to soak the pain inside.” She said
He pointed at the small cottage at their left and said “Here is your destination. Mr. Thomas must be asleep but you can try your luck”
“Thanks a lot for kindness, by the way how do you know Mr. Thomas” the girl inquired
“well I know him like wool knows the needle, like blood knows the veins. It is not the time to share in detail but we have swam often in the same storm” He said in a mysterious tone.
“Okay that is interesting, however what is your name and what….?”
Before she could complete the sentence he was gone. his footsteps disappeared in the gloom and she found herself staring at the cottage.
With a little hesitation she knocked on the wooden door, however there was no response. She tried few more times but soon realized that her guide was right.
As she was leaving she suddenly noticed that lower edges of the door was left ajar. She pushed it and small staircase opened in front of her.
The lights were dim and few shoes were lying in unkempt fashion on the rugged mat. She could barely see the floor but slowly trudged onto the steps of the staircase. She lumbered cautiously along the staircase. The noise of the sewing machine grew louder as she ascended upwards.
The room was half open. Fragile and fluffy wool was cluttered everywhere. Yellowish wall had turned pale red.
The bed was ridden with a corpse stitched in pale white cloth. The stomach was bloating and then shrinking. The ants were making hay in patches between the cloth.
The cracked mirror was turned upside down and was stained with marks of wrinkled hands.
The rain outside had stopped and thunder had resided into the clouds. She was there sitting next to dressing drawer in pale white gown. Her wrinkled hands were stained in red and rings were dancing on the floor.
She gazed at her, and smiled. The yellow tinge of her teeth was submerged in red.
“Now your favor has been returned, the epic of self alienation and despair, the tide has now settled, the tragedy has culminated. You must return”
The girl looked in shocked and gazed at the woman until she fainted
The morning was sunny, the skies were blue and her guide yesterday sat outside the cottage holding those old books. A passage from a book read
I have survived in self alienation, self denial, let my wounds find stitches of those strings
I have lumbered clueless in long nights, let my plight find salvation of those puddles
I have been deserted by my own mirrors, let my cracked images find pleasure in this tainted corpse

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